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What a Cannes Film Festival. It has been an unruly jungle. Unruly and luxuriant. The movies have climbed over each and every other in excellence, every single new a single transcending the last as it reaches towards that gilded guerdon, that light-giving cynosure of legendary tree-forms, the Palme d’Or.

Am I overdoing it? Not truly. Considering that mid-festival, this 69th medley on the Med has got much better and much better. A very good Olivier Assayas, Personal Shopper, gave way to a much better Jim Jarmusch, Paterson. A dazzling Pedro Almodóvar, Julieta, yielded ground — in well-known éclat — to an out-of-nowhere Brazilian film, Aquarius, whose screening ended with an ovation soon after beginning with a demo.

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The director and actors, possessing scaled the Palais methods, held out paper indicators every single blazing a slogan. “Coup d’état in Brazil”, “Brazil is no longer a democracy” . . . Flashbulbs blazed. Festival chief Thierry Frémaux bustled un­happily, his keep-politics-off-the-red-carpet policy clearly in peril. The stunt was repeated inside the auditorium. Far more unhappy Frémaux. Meanwhile the audience loved it — controversy! — even if some didn’t fairly know who the polemicists had been supporting or attacking. Anti-Rousseff? Pro-Rousseff?

No a single soon cared. Brazil is a paid-up political disaster zone appropriate now, what ever side you are on, and Aquarius, written and directed by Kleber Mendonça Filho — not a household name, till now — pays mischievous homage to the cancerous growth of social despair and demoralisation.

It’s all about corruption, decay (moral and material) and the final excellent people standing. Veteran star Sônia Braga plays the proud widow refusing to sell her house, the final apartment in an ocean-view block becoming gobbled up for demolition. Her household begs her to decamp. The developers make threats. Noisy parties, verging on orgies, are staged above her ceiling. Then — last act — there’s a lulu (no Brazilian leadership puns intended) of a spend-off, a single of these curtain moments that get audiencesrising to their feet in exulting glee.

It’s very a festival for Latin cinema. Q: Who is the most talented living film-maker by no means to have won the Palme d’Or? A: Pedro Almodóvar. The Spaniard started his profession as a post-Franco prodigy of libertine baroque — camp, cheeky and hyperbolic (Females on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown) — and has given that morphed into the most subtly achieved, voluptuously nuanced stylist in Europe, possibly the planet.

Alice Munro’s quick stories, like Almodóvar’s films, limn an daily world of enigmatic motivations, buried passions and transforming epiphanies. Julieta threads three Munro tales collectively close to-invisibly. You can not see the joins in the narrative about a lady (played at various ages by three diverse actresses) hankering for the daughter who has cut off all communication. Julieta’s journey across years is sketched in chapters at as soon as bold, vivid and wonderfully subtle. A fateful train trip a adore affair a family members residence rocked by a sea that is each cradle and grave that doted-on daughter whose sudden apartness comes like a silent bomb.

Individual moments are incandescent, mysterious or headlong with portent. On the red kitchen wall behind a quarrel scene, the huge white clock hands resemble crossed swords. A enjoy scene on a moving train is reflected in a night window so that the coupling’s blurred, febrile grace rhymes visually with the image, still fresh in our minds’ eyes, of a stag bounding magically however ominously via the train-side snow. Almost everything connects every little thing casts a spell. Close to the end the director cranes the camera above a lake-and-mountain landscape, at when to hold its majestic, indifferent beauty and to withhold a dénouement which — he is surely right to feel — have to be left, for its full energy, to be intuited and imagined by us.

Kristen Stewart in Olivier Assayas’s ‘Personal Shopper’

Individual Shopper is not in Almodóvar’s league, but it’s way above the league of the idiots — a dozen or so — who booed it. Possibly they were Twilight haters. Star Kristen Stewart has a part exploiting her nervy, sleepless eyes and murmurous lilt of voice. This is a ghost story: sort of. Her character is beguiled towards fulfilment or fatality by an unknown texter, probably her dead brother. Is he — let’s hazard a delirium of decoding — her “personal shopper”, a proxy agent of her desires and dreams, just as her own job, or one of them, is to be retail handmaiden to a celebrity French diva?

Perhaps the booers couldn’t stand being teased. This Assayas is the one who first blooded Stewart as his muse in Clouds of Sils Maria . In his new period as a picture-maker he peers tauntingly, at occasions bewitchingly, into the crack in between this world and the subsequent.

The ideal films of Jim Jarmusch look to doze their way into your soul. He’s a Zen charmer. Just when you think his stories are asleep — like Paterson’s slow-pulse tale of a poetry-writing bus driver (Adam Driver) whose verses are for no a single but him, his wife and his earthly sense of soul and self — you realise they’ve crept inside you and curled up for life.

Adam Driver and Golshifteh Farahani in ‘Paterson’

Somehow he makes prosaic Paterson, New Jersey, seem a location for poetry and revelation. (It was property to Allen Ginsberg and William Carlos Williams.) Somehow also he makes a dog, a mastiff named Marvin, the most memorable deus ex machina in Cannes. He’s currently favourite for the 2016 Palm Dog, annual gong for screen canines.

There have, alas, been other kinds of dog at Cannes. Park Chan-wook’s The Handmaiden is all style and no substance, throwing its chiaroscuro and camera arabesques at a clunky Korean­isation of Sarah Waters’s gothic thriller Fingersmith. Loving, from Jeff Nichols (Mud, Midnight Special ), is a pie-eyed plodder primarily based on a accurate story: that of the Virginia couple whose mixed marriage challenged miscegenation laws in the Kennedy 1960s.

Much better news on the fringe. The funny and enchanting Swiss model-animation film Ma Vie de Courgette, a debut function from Claude Barras, is about the angst and antics of an orphanage boy. It was a hit in the Directors’ Fortnight, which also showed the very first ever film from an Afghan lady director, Wolf and Sheep. Depicting life in and about a remote mountain village, it rates nine for ethnographic appeal, five for dramatic interest. But hooray for the reality of a 20-year-old woman — her age when she started the project — throwing off patriarchal constraints to make a feature film and bring it to Cannes.

With two days left, the Cannes competition powers on. Xavier Dolan’s It’s Only the End of the World, stage-derived yet defiantly cinematic, focuses an expressionistic gaze on a torrid family reunion, starrily played by Nathalie Baye, Marion Cotillard, Vincent Cassel and Gaspard Ulliel. Based on a play by Jean-Luc Lagarce it is like a Gallic Extended Day’s Journey Into Evening.

Cristian Mungiu’s Baccalauréat is the third of this Romanian’s quietly coruscating moral tales to bow at Cannes. The final was Beyond the Hills — passions and a Passion in a convent — and before that the Palme d’Or-winning Four Months, 3 Weeks and Two Days. Now it’s the troubling, powerful tale of a tiny-town family venturing into petty corruption when anything must be done, some dodgy favours must be referred to as in, when an eve-of-exam daughter is disadvantaged, to put it mildly, by an attempted rape the day just before.

We reside in a globe where assaults on freedom are multiform and multitudinous where those on individuals are as pernicious as these on groups or nations and exactly where — thank providence for the Cannes Film Festival — the searchlights of art and cinema can shine an insistent, indefatigable light on liberty’s abuses and liberty’s value.

Ends May 22, festival-cannes.fr

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The exclamation marks are a double jab in the ribs. But if you can bear the assaultive title — borrowed from a Van Halen song (a buddy tells me) — you can bear, even relish, the rest of Richard Linklater’s Everybody Desires Some!!. The maker of Boyhood naturally wanted to make Boyhood’s obverse. For an epic elegy about increasing up, study a hell-raising haiku about not developing up. In fact it is a spiritual sequel to Dazed and Confused, Linklater’s earlier canonic youth comedy.

The charm is winning. It is that of a social-anthropological Luddism — wry, heroic and cheeky. The 1980-set story tells us, with a broad grin of evangelising nostalgia, that male energies have barely advanced in sophistication considering that 1980BC (go over, or not) and that sports males, specially, see college/university as a way to devise their own education. Beer, girls, parties much more beer, girls, parties. Quickly-track badinage. Plus games and pranks of outwitting, to prepare for the greater game of outwitting known as adulthood.

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The cast is terrific and the script has a framing vision of a moment in time. The half-dozen central jocks — baseball “scholars” tasting the turn of a decade — are led by Blake Jenner’s bemused hunk of a freshman, beautifully played, an Isherwood-in-Berlin in Texas, and Glen Powell’s mischievous, seen-it-all senior, his fledgling moustache like antennae to a new zeitgeist.

The hippy age is about to turn into the yuppie age. These guys are Horatios on the bridge of modify, producing certain human continuity, and youthful he-man continuity, holds fast as lengthy as it can. For somebody humming significantly the identical tune from film to film, Linklater has an amazing versatility. The romantic wistfulness of the “Before” trilogy the funky animation of Waking LifeCollege of Rock’s higher-fiving populism Boyhood and in Dazed and this film, an irresistibly peppy vision of the previous as playground for the growing soul.

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In the cool white vaults of the Getty Study Institute, Los Angeles, curators tend to the archive of the late photographer Robert Mapplethorpe. The reverence befits a collection with an estimated value of $ 38m. They consider the black and white images of sexual adventure that as soon as enraged the American religious correct: “Ah,” one nods. “Mapplethorpe and bullwhip.” Anyone unfamiliar with that shot may possibly find themselves squinting to confirm what they’re seeing.

So starts the spry new documentary Mapplethorpe: Appear at the Photographs, appreciative of its subject’s gifts, frank about his flaws. You can also use it as a guide to the 1980s art globe and the journey of Manhattan from scuzzy bohemia to actual estate gold mine.

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With a life this eye-catching, directors Randy Barbato and Fenton Bailey hold their own strategy restrained, mixing stills and speaking heads (siblings, exes). The childhood property of Floral Park, Queens is “a good location to leave”, just as the downtown New York of 1970 was a very good place to arrive. These with a passion for the punk mythos of New York will thrill to Mapplethorpe and then lover Patti Smith checking into the Chelsea Hotel these with property in modern NoHo will thrill to the prices that are casually described later.

Smith’s meagre cash would be spent on Polaroid film for Robert to take his earliest portraits Mapplethorpe was often generous in letting other folks support his talent. After Smith, the function is taken by Sam Wagstaff, the older boyfriend who supplies a gateway to Mustique, the private island whose guests consist of a semi-friendly Andy Warhol. Back in New York, life divides between the glitz of the Upper West Side and the pleasures of The Mineshaft, the gay S&ampM club where he switches amongst photographing the patrons and joining the entertaining. The photographs he took there made him famous.

“There is no word for it,” an ex-boyfriend smiles as he ponders Mapplethorpe’s ambition. Income is often an concern. It only feels proper when, in 2014, a quarter century after his death, his celebrated photograph “Ken Moody and Robert Sherman” is projected on to the Nasdaq constructing.

Regardless of floating a hyperlink amongst a Catholic upbringing and a enjoy of sexual ritual, Barbato and Bailey do not impact to be psychologists. Then again, friends agree, Mapplethorpe wasn’t one particular for soul looking. Perfecting surfaces was his thing, spending hours removing blemishes from portraits (or instructing his assistants to). If his legacy is the collectors’ marketplace in photography, his method is reflected in a billion excellent selfies. The art lives on. The artist? He is remembered as great business, rarely argumentative. Typically, a former lover recalls, he was also self-absorbed to care.

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As if any other film in the galaxy could compete with Star Wars: The Force Awakens for Movie of the Year. Episode VII took residence the night’s prime prize at the 2016 MTV Film Awards, and franchise star, and Breakthrough Performance winner, Daisy Ridley and director J.J. Abrams were on hand to accept the Golden Popcorn for the cast and crew in the course of the Saturday night taping on the Warner Bros. backlot.

The duo, who left production on Star Wars: Episode VIII to attend the massive show (!), created very the entrance as they walked by way of a deconstructed recreation of the 1st Order’s Starkiller Base amid an audience holding hundreds of lightsabers.

“I gotta say, it was an outstanding honor to be element of the Star Wars saga,” Abrams stated, holding his popcorn proudly. Whereever this little guy was, he was freakin’ thrilled:

Relive Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams’ kiss and more of the most significant moments from 25 years of the Movie Awards:

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Watch the 2016 Movie Awards on Sunday, April 10 at 8 p.m. ET/PT on MTV. News

‘Anomalisa’ functions the voices of David Thewlis as Michael Stone and Jennifer Jason Leigh as Lisa Hesselman

It should have seemed, to any person very first listening, the most doomed concept in function film history. Properly, to virtually any individual. Kickstarter subscribers had been clearly an exception they made the project possible. Laptop Rockefellers? Reckless net chancers? Yes, they might co-fund a forlornly seriocomical puppet-animation movie primarily based on an original play by a renowned/infamous Hollywood oddball. The film’s unlikely hero is a middle-aged self-support author possessing a one particular-night stand in a dowdily pricey Cincinnati hotel, on the eve of a conference. The film’s title is even significantly less promising: no a single, on a 1st sighting, will recognize it — Anomalisa.

Picture the pitch, if there had been one particular. “We’ll be producing the film with computer-printed puppets. Most of the female characters are dubbed with male voices.” (We understand why at some point.) “And the themes are despair, loneliness and Fregoli syndrome.” That is the condition in which you think absolutely everyone else is the exact same person in different guises. “Fregoli” is also the name offered to the hotel.

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But yes — by now you are ahead of me — the film is superb, haunting, indelible, outstanding. Co-directed by Charlie Kaufman, screenwriter of Getting John Malkovich and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Thoughts (and author of that supply stage/radio play), with animator Duke Johnson, it is an inspired miniature with unstrung (in practically every sense) marionettes. It’s about madness, male menopause and the redemptive possibilities of really like. And it’s set in a globe hilariously precise and horrific: a hotel that ticks all the jet-age alienation boxes and resembles Hell remade for a Thunderbirds convention.

Why is Anomalisa so funny-tragic? Simply because it catches our off-guard selves. Voiced with an anxiousness-edged northern English burr by David Thewlis, “Michael Stone” is an Everyperson every person can determine with, at least in — say — the mutely screaming hours of early morning insomnia or the quiet but ineluctable panic of advancing age. Comfy sufficient, prosperous enough, acclaimed enough, Michael is walking towards a void in his life as large as a pothole.

Kaufman and Johnson’s puppets are quaint yet spooky, rudimentary but lifelike. In early scenes they arrive as if on a conveyor belt of crafted satirical idiosyncrasy: the yappy taxi driver, the reception clerk on social autopilot, the deluxe catatonia of the cocktail lounge. But then Michael meets Lisa (Jennifer Jason Leigh), a kooky brunette as needy as he. Cue the one-evening romance. Cue the melody of mated hearts.

It is absurdly touching, this dark/light night of the soul, up to and including the puppet sex scene that — with apologies (or none) to Group America — goes beyond the zany-incongruous to find a tender, delicate, picayune poignancy. The final scenes restore us to a world exactly where nightmare reigns, not least in a sinisterly staffed hotel basement that out-Kafkas Kafka. But our hero may now have located the important to coping. It’s the skeleton essential enjoy often supplies: the a single displaying us that every person we had been afraid of just before is only, like us, a lost soul hoping to locate himself, just when or briefly, just before time’s final tolling.

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If The Assassin had been any much more beautiful it could be prosecuted under the hazardous drugs act. Taiwan’s Hou Hsiao-Hsien creates images of a narcotic allure even more bewitching than in his Flowers of Shanghai (1998). That was the movie that made late-19th-century Chinese brothels appear like a hallucinogen addict’s vision of paradise.

The new film is a wuxia (martial arts) story. You ought to read a synopsis of the introductory scenes prior to you see it — a brief one particular is supplied below — because you’ll be knocked off your perch by the wealthy colours, glittering textures, flaming golds and silvers, jewelled costumes and jaw-dropping, nay jaw-dislocating scenery. And by your intuition, appropriate, that Hou has researched the hell out of the story’s period — he claims to have spent years undertaking so — distilling it into a heaven for aesthetes and gogglers at the beautiful.

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The opacity of the narrative virtually seems element of the film’s purpose. In late Tang Dynasty China a stunning assassin, played by Hou typical Shu Qi, is dispatched by her guardian nun to kill a provincial ruler. Mercy intervenes it’s this hit-woman’s redemptive foible. (And her quarry was as soon as her betrothed.) Whereupon we start dreamily to slip time and place. The film’s oneiric eye-blinks, some longer than other folks, consist of a flashbacked princess singing of a tragic bluebird, horsebacked warriors weaving by way of spectacular gorges, domestic scenes of an opiate beauty set in royal bedrooms or boudoirs. Human actions are a saga of small, exquisite scratches on the scroll of eternity.

I’ve seen the film twice and nonetheless can not stick to every single shift of its court intrigues and conspiracy plots. But I’m not sure Hou wants us to. He wants us to really feel the enraptured shrug of a secular pantheism at once complete-earth and unearthly. Nature is everywhere in the film. Birdsong and insect noises magically orchestrated on the soundtrack breeze-blown veils and curtains shimmering in interiors cloud-girt mountain crags soaring like petrified eagles caught in mid-takeoff. The fight scenes themselves are sparse, vivid, startling, surreally short. They seem like convulsions of fleeting goal in a globe exactly where the only fixed rule of existence is — indifferent however majestic — existence itself.

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Survival stories don’t know when to stop: that’s their point. Morality tales know exactly when to cease: that is their point. What the devil happens when, as in The Revenant, you mix the two?

Morality tales are short simply because they are tiny twists of wisdom in which the story’s end bites the story’s beginning. Switchback ironies runic mischiefs and recoil ingenuities incidents at Owl Creek. Ambrose Bierce would have taken ten pages to polish off the revenge kernel of The Revenant. Spiced with tragic irony, that kernel is certainly the film’s essence as narrative nutrition?

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Endurance yarns are the opposite. They hate to quit due to the fact the grass is often bloodier . . . The next bear, the subsequent storm, the next pack of howling natives. Leonardo DiCaprio plays a semi-fictionalised version of Hugh Glass, a Midwest trapper who survived against close to-not possible odds in the 1820s, living to stalk — in the film’s telling — the fellow trapper (Tom Hardy) who leaves him for dead, realizing him still alive. Half-burying his parlously wounded pal, Hardy’s character requires off following the bounty bonanza promised by his leader for overtime vigil.

DiCaprio’s Glass barely lives via a grizzly’s mauling — so graphic and prolonged it tears strips from your sangfroid — just before he is cascading down wintry falls, chewing live fish, disembowelling a horse . . . The feats of this icicled Hercules, initially gripping, go on and on, varied by scenes with a likelihood-met Native American (Duane Howard) whose solitary function, we swiftly and rightly suspect, is to be a healer-mentor. He’s a one particular-trick Pawnee: the ancestral cliché of the holistic primitive.

Filmmaker Alejandro G. Iñárritu, whose Birdman suggested he had come down from the inflated pomposities of Babel and Biutiful, has relearned vatic vacuity. For The Revenant’s scenery-besottedness — one cause of its extended-windedness — we can not wholly blame him. The locations and cinematography are wow-inducing. British Columbia in all weathers (playing the US Midwest) is lensed by Emmanuel Lubezki as if he had gorged on the comprehensive operates of JMW Turner and CD Friedrich. Molten stormscapes soaring crags sunsets so piercing they nearly carry out laser eye surgery.

Scenically we do not begrudge the 156 minutes. It is significantly that they’re baggy and repetitive. And DiCaprio’s efficiency — gluttonous in its stunt-seeking if honourable in its feelings — is a heart, body and soul assault, barely disguised, on the Greatest Actor Oscar. Give him the damn thing, we practically really feel by the close, and let’s move on.

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Eddie Redmayne works so tough in The Danish Girl, as the painter andpioneer sex-adjust patient Einar Wegener, who became renowned as “Lili Elbe”, that you want to sit him down, wave a towel and spray water in his mouth. It’s acting as histrionic slugging: except that Redmayne must be counter-macho for ten rounds, not punching but preening and simpering. That’s how you win trophies — or feel you win trophies — in gender reassignment roles.

It is a dire movie. Via the distorting glass of David Ebershoff’s semi-fictionalised book about Einar/Lili (which inter alia airbrushes out wife Gerda’s lesbianism), screenwriter Lucinda Coxon and director Tom Hooper generate a period drama that is all period and no drama. 1920s Denmark is a Vienna Secession-style delirium: art nouveau by the tonne, Klimt-like dresses and poses. And dialogue like mottos written about a painting’s frame or gilded speech balloons. “This surgery has never ever been attempted before,” declares, for the hard of hearing or apprehending, the surgeon professor. And “I want my husband!” emotes Alicia Vikander’s Gerda earlier, as Redmayne-Einar begins morphing into Redmayne-Lili.

Some commentators have attacked the film for casting a “cis” actor (a single comfy with his personal gender) in a “trans” function. That appears the least of The Danish Girl’s offences or failings. It is like criticising a white actor’s assumption of Othello in a Shakespeare production falling apart wherever you appear.

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Something is running around, difficult to catch, in David O. Russell’s Joy. At initial you want to trap it, or zap it, with one of the multi-function mops patented by the inventor heroine (Jennifer Lawrence). You realise, eventually, what it is. It’s the film’s mis­chievous subtext. It is the answer to the question, “Why are we watching this feelgood, even hokum-ish story, primarily based on true events, about a self-created lady who marketed a household tool?”

Russell is a mischief-maker. Three Kings was a war film as opposed to a war film, a lot more a black comedy in a fire-zone. Silver Linings Playbook was a feral fairy tale. Joy, like his last film American Hustle, is about the American dream. But with Russell the American dream is an antic, elusive issue, far more like the oneiric tatters that form a dream as you slip in or out of it.

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Joy’s first hour is loose, ludic, exhilarating. Right here, largely beneath one particular roof, is a working-class dynasty that is all proximity and no relating. Joy, primarily based on real mop inventor and later millionairess Joy Mangano, is a struggling blonde scatterbrain dreaming up hit-or-miss gizmos (wonderfully played by Lawrence). Mum (Virginia Madsen) lies on bed all day watching soap operas. Semi-estranged dad pops in and out, played by Robert De Niro in his twangy, vibrant-loser Woody Allen style. Add Joy’s husband, who wants to be the subsequent Tom Jones, and granny (Diane Ladd), who delivers the script’s best line. “You were born to be the unanxious presence in the space,” she tells Joy.

Even when the film sails close to accurate-story triteness, teledrama-style, the director as ironist is at function. As Joy goes ahead of the purchasing channel cameras, nervously wielding her mop below the lights although chirruping of single-weave cleaning heads detachable for machine-washing, I thought of a famous painting by Richard Hamilton — that pop-art paragon and paradigm of the 1950s — titled “Just what is it that makes today’s houses so different, so attractive?” Russell achieves the exact same blend of consumer cheesiness, collage exuberance and bizarre bliss-out. And when Bradley Cooper turns up playing the tycoon as dream hero, a suave comic-book hunk, you can add Roy Lichtenstein to Richard Hamilton.

Postmodern wryness is a risky style. It is via faith as considerably as cause, at times, that we credit Russell with intending a wry swipe at American optimism simultaneously with a loving handshake. You need two hands for that or 1 hand more quickly than light. In some scenes we sense that second wizardry. There is a corporation waiting area, huge, modernist and Valhalla-shadowed, that resembles an Ayn Rand dream or nightmare. As imagery it is each awesome and lunatic. And watch for Isabella Rossellini as De Niro’s new consort, a witchily glamorous business boss with a sly, unerring instinct for hindering the young although pretending to help. It’s this actress’s best, and spookiest, role considering that Blue Velvet.

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